


If Wishes Were Dragons...

by ozsaur



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Gen, Stargate Atlantis AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-04
Updated: 2013-01-04
Packaged: 2017-11-23 15:43:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/623796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ozsaur/pseuds/ozsaur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Banished to a distant outpost, John tries hard to face the reality that dreams don't come true.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If Wishes Were Dragons...

**Author's Note:**

  * For [oriolegirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oriolegirl/gifts).



> Written for oriolegirl for fandom_stocking. You said you liked AUs, a tinge of angst with a happy ending, and futurfic. I managed to get everything but the futurfic. I really hope you like this! And I hope you had a happy holiday season!
> 
> Apologies for the lack of beta.

John had arrived mid-spring, after winter's final thaw. It would have been several weeks before any trade caravan left the city for the tiny, half-forgotten outpost, and John's father had wanted him away, out of his sight, gone. It had added salt to the wounds to be flown to Mardo on the back of a slate blue dragon as a passenger. 

Always a passenger. Never to be a dragonrider.

It was clear to him now that any dreams he'd had of bonding with his own dragon had been foolish, and clinging to that dream as he'd approached his thirtieth birthday had bordered on pathetic. Still, pathetic or not, he longed for the skies. 

Looking down at the tiny village where he would live until his father's anger had mellowed, if it ever did, John had vowed to put aside his childish dream, and try harder to be the son and heir his father wanted him to be.

It hadn't been easy. As the weeks had turned into months, John's determined resolve had turned into an apathetic acceptance. He could never be a dragonrider; he was slowly learning to live with that. It was the other duties and expectations placed on him because of his class, and being an heir to the Sheppard fortunes that were a lot harder to swallow.

He'd had no problem learning the ins-and-outs of running the vast estates, trade ventures, and other responsibilities to the Sheppard holdings. The work was sometimes boring, but there was often satisfaction in a job well done.

Since coming to Mardo, John had pressed and persisted in doing actual, hands-on work there, until he was digging ditches, gathering wood, netting fish, and repairing walls and roofs alongside the villagers. There had been great reluctance on their part at first to allow the pampered son of Master Sheppard to get his hands dirty. John had quickly disabused them of the notion that he was any kind of soft, city boy, cossetted by an indulgent father. John had laughed at the very thought. Patrick Sheppard didn't even spoil his favorite dog, let alone his own sons.

Over time, John had proved to be a valued member of the small community. Lying at the farthest edge of the Commonwealth, Mardo was completely isolated during their long, harsh winters. Most trade caravans didn't bother going to such a remote location, so while the ocean provided food, and the houses were cozy and well cared for, Mardo still struggled on the edge of poverty. John's strong back, and willingness to put it to good use, had eased much of the pressure of trying to survive in such an unforgiving environment.

Some days, a restlessness would come over him, and he needed to get away. The first time John had thrown some food into a pack and set out to explore the rocky terrain, search parties had been sent out to look for him. It had been embarrassing when the village headwoman, Elizabeth Weir, had sat him down to explain that if anything had happened to John, the consequences to everyone in the village would have been dire. He should have considered that before heading out on his own, and he'd blushed to the roots of his hair at having to be told such a basic truth.

Since then, he was careful to tell his landlady, or Mistress Weir, that he was heading out, and gave a general idea of where he was going. 

He'd taken to mapping the areas that he explored, making note of interesting landmarks, and places he'd like to examine more closely. Three days away from the village, he steadily headed north, away from the coastline. The land was rocky, strewn with boulders, some of them higher than John's head. It was difficult enough to travel on foot, and would be nearly impossible on horseback. He understood why people were reluctant to settle out there. 

Rounding a large boulder, John paused to lean against it, and jot down notes and a crude sketch of the path he'd taken. The rock was warm from the sun, and the heat relieved some of the ache in his shoulders from carrying his pack, which now contained two rabbits that he'd caught and skinned earlier, and a sack filled with wild berries that he'd picked after accidentally stumbling into a tangle of bushes. Dinner would be good, but he didn't look forward to another night sleeping on the rocky ground. He'd start heading back to the village in the morning.

He was so busy with his notes that it was several minutes before he noticed that the rock at his back was vibrating. It was very faint, so John turned and put his hand against the rock. It was definitely vibrating, and now that he was paying attention, he could hear a barely audible hum on the air. 

Puzzled, John looked around, but saw nothing but rocks, dirt, and tufts of the hardy grass that grew in that area. John listened, then walked in the direction where the sound seemed to be coming from. John rounded the boulder, and found himself facing a great pile of them, heaped together as if a giant child had dropped a handful of blocks from the sky. The path around the heap was treacherous, so John picked his way carefully along, keeping one hand on the stones, feeling the vibrations getting stronger, and the humming louder. 

The sound was familiar. Excitement jolted through him, and yet he couldn't quite place where he'd heard that sound before. He suddenly found himself in a small clearing surrounded by yet more boulders. On the far side there was an opening in the rocks, about man height, and just as wide. He crossed the clearing and looked inside, noticing that the ground sloped downwards then took a slight bend to the left into a dim cave-like space. 

The sound was very loud now, and suddenly, John knew exactly what it was.

Heart pounding, John jumped to the side of the opening, his back against the rock. His mouth went dry as he realized how much danger he was in. If he left immediately, he might be able to put enough distance behind him so that the inhabitant of the cave might ignore him. Then again...

It was a dragon.

A wild mother dragon humming to her clutch of eggs as they began to hatch. That's why he hadn't recognized the sound. Domestic dragons were social creatures, and generally laid their eggs at the same time so that their clutches hatched together. When several female dragons hummed together, it made a powerful sound, and could be felt throughout an entire city.

All common sense abandoned him as he turned and crept past the entrance. He could no more have walked away than he could have stopped breathing. In all his studies, there had been few witnesses to the hatching of wild dragon clutches. As far as John knew, he would be the first to witness such a thing in over a hundred years. The honor was worth the risk, especially if the wild dragon didn't bite his head off for his daring.

He walked down the dim passage, the humming becoming louder by the minute. When he reached the end, he peeked around the bend, and looked into the shadowy space beyond. 

The roof of the space wasn't solid; there were beams of light shining down. In nearly every beam was a hollow in which sat an egg being warmed by the sun. John walked toward them as if drawn from his hiding spot. He didn't even realize he had moved into the open until he found himself standing a step or two from the first egg.

He could only stand there and stare. They were like nothing he had ever seen before. They were barely the size of a human infant, about half the size of the eggs of domesticated dragons. And they were a dark, mottled gray, and rather lumpy; again, different from the smooth, sand colored eggs that he'd seen before. Then he realized that these eggs blended in with the dirt and stone of this region, camouflaging them from scavengers and predators.

He did a quick count and was surprised that there were ten of them, many more than the one to four eggs typical of domestic dragons. That made perfect sense. There was probably a higher mortality rate for young wild dragons.

His attention was suddenly caught by a movement at the back of the chamber. John gulped as he found himself staring into the golden brown eyes of the mother dragon. She was as tall as John at the shoulder, but her long neck and broad horse-like head added another few feet. The roof prevented her from moving back onto her hind legs, and kept her head level with John's.

She didn't stop humming, which was a good sign. She didn't growl or snap at him, another good sign. But slowly, she began to extend her wings as far as the chamber would let her, a definite warning sign. John snapped out of his daze, and started to back away.

Then he heard it. A tiny peeping sound, as weak as something a kitten might produce, and nothing like the yowls of other newly hatched dragons he'd seen. The mother heard it too, and dropped her head to an egg near her feet. Her nostrils flared as she sniffed at the opening forming in the side of the egg. In that moment, even the threat of death couldn't make him leave.

There was another peep, and John turned to look, but there was another peep to his right, and another to his left. Suddenly, there were peeping noises everywhere, and the crackle of the eggs being opened by the knobby egg bump on the end of each baby dragon's nose. He desperately wanted to "help" the tiny babies, but dragon breeders had known for centuries that dragons were healthier if allowed to emerge on their own.

The mother hummed at one egg after another, but made no move to interfere. She seemed to have forgotten John was there.

John gasped as the first dragonet emerged, wet and exhausted, to lie on the ground next to the broken remains of its egg. There was movement everywhere as dragonets broke out of their eggs to lie in heaps on the ground.

What happened next was like nothing he'd ever heard of before. There was a strange tightness in his head, and he suddenly felt cold and wet, tired and hungry, but most of all scared. A confused sense of leaving warmth and safety to find the world bright and harsh. John swayed and rubbed at his head as he was bombarded by emotions that weren't his.

It was the dragonets, and they needed help after all. John dropped his pack, and fell to his knees next to the closest one. Tearing off his shirt, he reached for the first dragonet and began to gently wipe the wetness from its hide. The dragonet peeped, then turned its, no _his_ head to rest against John's forearm. John couldn't remember how fragile dragonets were, so he was very careful drying the wings. 

He was so focused that the powerful emotions around him faded into the background. John found himself completely charmed by the little creature he held in his hands. The variegated gray on gray of his hide was so different from the bright colors, the blues and greens, browns and golds that had been bred into the dragons John knew. Then and there, John decided that he preferred the natural colors of wild dragons far more than the gaudy domestic ones; even more than the new white dragons that were a product of selective breeding that John had admired so much. It seemed kind of stupid now to like such showy colors when natural colors showed the origin of the dragon, as well as the beauty that nature could shape.

As John finished drying the dragonet, the creature's eyes opened and he found himself falling into golden brown depths. He must have sat there mesmerized for several minutes when he saw movement at the corners of his eyes. The dragonets were on the move, and heading toward the passageway.

Alarmed, John scooped the remains of the egg out of the way, and placed his dragonet in the hollow to get warm in the sun. He randomly grabbed another one, and swiped it down with his shirt, before dropping it into another hallow and grabbing for a third one. Now that he wasn't focused on the first one, the emotions around him came back in force, and this time the strongest feeling was hunger. 

John finished with the third dragonet, and reached for his pack to grab another shirt. But the other dragonets were now moving fast, mewling with hunger. When John reached for one, it snapped at his hand. John jerked back and came face to face with the mother.

John didn't dare to even breathe. Very delicately, the mother sniffed at John, first his chest, and then his arms. Then she bowed her head, and sniffed at the three dragonets John had touched. She drew back, and gazed at him for what seemed like an eternity. Without a sound, she walked right past him following the other dragonets.

John's breath whooshed out in relief, but the relief didn't last for long. As he looked at the little dragons, he realized with horror, that he had well and truly screwed up.

Of course the dragonets hadn't needed his help. Even now, the mother was probably helping her young find food. They had been perfectly safe, and because of his interference--

John squeezed his eyes shut. He had to think. He knew dragonriders felt an emotional connection to their dragons, but only after bonding. He had witnessed eighteen hatchings and never felt that overwhelming blast of emotions. No dragonrider had ever reported such a thing, not according to any of his studies nor any first hand accounts. 

But this had been a wild hatching. Perhaps that was the difference?

As far as he knew, this type of dragon had never been domesticated. They were one of the smallest known dragons, and some had even argued that they weren't really dragons at all, but a lesser cousin, like the large wingless lizards to the east. Some had thought they were too small to carry a rider, let alone cargo. Some time ago, there had been idle talk about using them for racing, but nothing had come of it. The trainers and breeders weren't willing to brave such an inhospitable environment to find new stock, especially if there was no guarantee that they could make a profit from the venture.

John was still trying hard to remember everything he knew about these dragons when he felt a nudge against his hand. He opened his eyes to find himself looking at a dragonet, the first one he'd wiped off. An ache formed in the pit of his stomach, and there was a rushing in his head, a sensation almost like a tickle, which was weird. Distinctly, he felt something like a word: "Hungry."

John blinked at the dragonet. "What?"

The word became clearer, and he absolutely did not hear it with his ears. "Hungry."

"You-- Did you just say that?" John's voice was startling in the chamber.

The next word nearly blasted through his head, " _Hungry!_ "

"Okay, okay!" he said, rubbing at his temple.

He rummaged in his pack, and pulled out a knife and the two rabbits he'd captured that morning. Had it only been a couple of hours ago? Judging from the light, it was still early afternoon. That's when he noticed the other two dragonets. The bigger one on his right had moved deeper into the shadows, while the smallest one on the left sat very still, watching him intently. The first started prodding at John's leg with his nose which kind of hurt, so he got down to business of cutting up the rabbits. He barely had one piece cut when the dragonet snapped it right out of his hand.

"Hey!"

"Good!" The dragonet gazed at him expectantly, licking his lips.

John got busy cutting the meat and feeding it to the dragonet. It didn't keep him busy enough to keep his thoughts from flying in every direction. He was in so much trouble. Once Patrick Sheppard found out what he'd done, banishment to the far ends of the Commonwealth would seem like a picnic.

The constant tickling sensation in his mind confirmed that he'd bonded with the dragonet. It had been drummed into his head that a man of his position in society did not become a dragonrider. It just wasn't done. Breeding could be a hobby, but directly handling dragons was left to hired hands. Only a rare few were allowed to bond with a dragon in order to fly them. The bond lasted a lifetime.

It was with rising glee that John realized that the little dragonet couldn't be taken from him. No matter how furious Patrick Sheppard got, the bond couldn't be severed without trauma to the rider and dragon both. The bond was also protected by law; people had ended up in prison for tampering with a dragonriders bond. 

The dragnonet snapped up one last bite of rabbit, and collapsed against John's knee. John stroked a finger down the little guy's back, and the dragonet hummed as simple contentment filled that new space in the back of John's mind. He wanted to just hug the dragonet, and the response was a feeling like he was being hugged back.

John had to blink hard, there seemed to be some dust in his eyes. This was what he'd always wanted, and he suddenly didn't care if the dragonet ever grew big enough to carry him into the skies.

There was a questioning sensation in his mind, then the dragonet rubbed his cheek against John's knee.

"We can fly," the dragonet said.

Really, John wasn't sure he could deal with any more shocks today. He'd bonded with a dragonet, and apparently, he could talk to him, too. This was different from the powerful empathic connection that dragonriders described.

"I'm Rodney."

John had never heard of a dragon called Rodney before.

"Rodney doesn't like the name mother gave him," said another voice in the back of his mind. A female voice.

The shocks just kept coming.

The little female to his left sat in her hollow, her tail neatly wrapped around her paws. In spite of her posture, she didn't look very well. She was patient, but her hunger had gone well past the point of tolerance. 

"Aw, hell, I'm sorry," John said.

He cut up the rest of the first rabbit, feeding it to the little female, who daintily took the meat from his hand. The biggest one refused to come closer, staying in the shadows watching, but it ate the meat John tossed him. 

When the female was full, she said, "I'm Teyla. That one is Rodney, though mother named him Meredith." Rodney hissed at her, but she ignored him. "And that one is Ronon."

He could feel all three of them, the connection to Rodney the strongest. He was truly bonded to Rodney, because he could sense every emotion that flicked through his mind. Once the bond settled, it wouldn't be so overwhelming. Teyla was a quiet presence in the back of his mind, not in the least intrusive, but simply there. The connection wasn't as strong, but with humbleness, he knew she would never leave him. Ronon was a different matter. The connection faded in and out. It had strengthened when John was feeding him, but it had soon faded until John was barely aware of Ronon at all. There was a sense of wildness, a pull to break free and join his other siblings outside. But Ronon stayed, slightly apart, and watching from the shadows.

Three dragonets. An embarrassment of riches for a man who had given up the dream of having even one. Two that could speak in actual words. One who said he would someday carry John into the sky. John picked Rodney up and cradled him against his chest. Rodney grumbled, and curled up in John's arms like he belonged there. He had his own dragon, and two companions, and he was never going to let any of them go, even if it was possible.

Patrick Sheppard could do whatever the hell he wanted.

John was a dragonrider.

The End


End file.
